The Driver
by gkmoberg1
Summary: An expansion of the novel's prologue.
1. Chapter 1

_Dear Reader:_

_John Ajvide Lindqvist's novel __Let the Right One In__ presents the (fictional) events that occurred in Stockholm's western suburbs in late 1981. The story is told in chronological order, except for final part of the opening section. There, a bit of the future as well as the recent past are mixed together in a few sentences, cleverly presented in a manner that helps set the initial mood and draw our curiosity._

_It is upon a second or third reading of the book that this prefix' mere four or so pages draw some attention. Being the only part of the novel that is not presented chronologically hardly seems significant at first. Yet its mix of a prior event and an interview a month following the main work's ending form a frame wherein the story will occur. Further musings reveal the opening's future event could only be placed here. Landing it properly at the end of the story would diminish the story's ending. Even to provide it as an Epilogue would be a distraction. Thus this wrinkle in the telling's otherwise chronological ordering makes sense._

_But what if the novel had been written entirely in the chronological order? The two events included in the novel's prologue would become separated and would have to be restated to properly fit their respective positions: One placed three days before the opening chapter, the other approximately three weeks beyond the end of the novel's final scene. It is this separation which is developed here as the two parts. The following two chapters are not meant to seen as one following the other but rather as the separated events from the novel's prolog. Imagine them placed to bracket the novel's main body. For this I have mimicked some of Mr. Lindqvist's style; however, I have used a first person voice as the narrative. This twist helps by both preserving the anonymity of the involved characters and integrating a sense of immediacy to these additions. I hope you enjoy it._ _This story was first posted in October 2011 on the forum "We, the Infected" by me, gkmoberg1._

**Sunday**

18 October 1981

[ Citation: Lindqvist, John Ajvide; Ebba Segerberg (2008-10-28). Let the Right One In: A Novel (p. 1-4). St. Martin's Griffin. Kindle Edition. ]

**Norrköping**

I pull onto the side street nearly two hours later than my planned arrival. I dislike being late. "19:48" says the clock on console of my Volvo light truck. I park as close as I can, grab my gloves, extract the keys and climb out. It's cold outside of the small cab and I look about for the building entrance. Turns out the door is pretty easy to spot and I ring the bell. The renter immediately answers and he greets me straight off. It is a relief, always, to find the right party and begin the job. Yet tonight it is a bit of an embarrassment for me to be so late in my arrival.

He is a stout man, strong and balding. I find him agreeable but he looks tired. I shake hands with him and we exchange names. As usual I forget his within thirty seconds. He tells me he doesn't care how late I am in getting here, that the requirement for the job was that we do this after dark - which is indeed the case.

We climb the couple of stairs to his flat. He lets me in. It is a dingy, sparsely used place, and I see what is to be taken down to the street. Everything has been boxed and arranged. The bed has been broken up and the boards, rails, head board and mattress are together against the left wall.

"I need you to sign for this before we begin," I tell him. He grunts, looks over the paperwork and signs it. The money comes out of his pocket and quickly I can tell by the large denomination notes that the matter is paid for. Settled out on the formalities, we begin the work.

I usually have a man with me for residential moves. It helps with the large pieces. In this case I had been told the move would be very light - nothing large - and this turns out the be the case. We proceed by my direction, which turns out matches his thinking. I take a liking to the guy - he's organized. Sofa is moved first because it is the largest single piece. Then the bed parts. Then the tables and chairs. Boxes last.

It takes a long while to move everything down the stairs, out through the doors, up into the truck and then secured. We work for a long while at it, taking frequent breaks. I can tell the guy is exhausted by the work but doesn't want to show it. He is in solid physical shape but it is hard to be doing this. The darkness and the cold don't help. I let him rest at the end of each piece's move. If he gives up on me with the truck half loaded, we're done. But he holds it together even though he is panting at times.

A mystery of why some of the chairs and boxes upstairs in the flat keep moving closer to the door while we are downstairs and outside is revealed. The guy has got a kid with him. She appears out of the shadows during our next to last trip down the stairs. We're carrying the boxes at that point and I catch my first glimpse of her as I'm heading out the door with several stacked up in my arms. "Hey, I didn't realize you had a kid here too," I call out to him. He grunts and continues down the stairs ahead of me. When we have the box run secured in the truck and he is taking a breather on the tail gate he finally answers me.

"Yeh, she's pretty quiet."

"Daughter?" I ask.

"Yes," he grunts and then forces himself back into action. Seems to me he's cutting the conversation short. Whatever. We're almost done.

He does the usual last look around the place. Everything is out as we carry away the remaining set of boxes. He locks the door behind and we descend.

"Is she out?" I've only seen her the one time.

"Yes," he grunts.

Again the grunting. I let it go.

The final box load is secured and I close up the truck. It is getting very late now. And cold. But at this point we are committed to all this, which is why I don't like doing moves at night and why I don't like being the only workman on a run.

I climb into the cab and he joins me. I buckle in and ask if he knows the way. He says he can help guide. Fortunately Blackeberg is not that complicated.

Just as he shuts his door, she slips in. Right out of nowhere. She must have been haunting around on the far side of the truck. In the darkness you'd never see her. Even now in the cab she's a quiet shadow over between him and the door. I want to give her a friendly "hello" but can't get a look at her. She seems pretty cute though. Probably about ten years old, judging by the size of her. Ghostlike, though.

We drive along in silence. Again, this is a problem with doing moves at night: everyone is tired. It gets too easy to make mistakes and I know the hard parts are yet to come.

**Blackeberg**

We turn onto Ibsengaten, two hours later, and find a place close to where he points out the new entrance. Number 75, Ibsengaten is our destination; their new home. At least the street is lit, even at this hour.

The whole dance begins anew, going in reverse. I open up the truck. We start with the boxes, climbing up and into to their new place. Again I have to give the guy breaks, only it is worse now. Hauling everything up the stairwell is taxing him. Nothing I can do but give him time.

I lost sight of the girl the moment we parked. His door opened and she was gone into the night before I even thought to look over. I haven't seen her since.

We continue with the boxes and then the chairs and tables. Finally the bed pieces are brought up. I will let him assemble those and he tells me he can do it on his own. It is almost midnight as we struggle with the couch. I figure the police will be here any time now, asking us to wait on the rest until morning. And then, finally, the sofa is up and inside the new place and we're done. The timing is good. He is dead exhausted and I want to get home to my family and bed.

We shake hands and ramble down the stairs and back outside. A final bit of conversation occurs but we're both tired. It's been along day for me - three moves - I can't keep doing this. He gives me a nice tip.

I climb into the cab and start it up. As I pull away I see him talking to his daughter. They're just outside the doorway entrance. I can't hear the conversation with the cab windows shut but I imagine they're discussing what more needs needs to be done tonight and who is going to sleep where.

It's odd but the last thing I worry about as I pull away is the unusual nature of that little girl. Most times when I help with residential moves the kids are a menace during the unpacking stage. They are typically wound up and racing through the new place, getting into everything. Not this kid though. The little ghost was nowhere to be seen until just as I pulled away. How odd.


	2. Chapter 2

**Monday**

9 December 1981

[ Citation: Lindqvist, John Ajvide; Ebba Segerberg (2008-10-28). Let the Right One In: A Novel (p. 1-4). St. Martin's Griffin. Kindle Edition. ]

[ All spoken lines, as shown in a italics, are directly from the novel. ]

I was about to close up the garage for the day when a knock came at the door. Hesitantly I opened it, hoping this would not be anything urgent. There were a couple of things on the schedule for this evening and I wanted to get home soon for dinner.

It was an officer or rather an official investigator. He introduced himself and came in. I forgot the name, as I typically do, in record time. Said he wanted to see my log book for the period back in mid-October. I obliged him this, still hoping to move things along so that I could be on my way home.

I chewed my nails while I waited. The officer scanned the entries one by one, asking me bits here and there for details. It bugs me when I can't remember something that I know I was directly involved in. But as he was working his way down the list, asking me for information on who so-and-so was and what the job might have been, I found myself anxious that I could recall so little. These were jobs I did barely two months back. Maybe I should attempt some of those memory exercise gimmicks I see in the TV commercials, late night.

Finally he came to an entry that made him stop. His finger rested on my log book and he seemed to stop his breathing. "Blackeberg, here" he said at last. I didn't respond. Had I done a Blackeberg move in mid-October? I looked blankly at him, my hopes of a warm dinner at home were starting to fade.

"18 October, here" he said to me. "Says you moved a man to Blackeberg from Norrköping. Right?"

Yes, that one came back to me, the late-night move.

"Yes."

"Tell me the details. Where to? The address."

"That was the night move. I moved a man and his daughter from Norrköping. Two hour drive, starting after dark. The man was quiet the whole way."

"Address?" he repeated, a bit sternly.

"Umm, Ibsengaten. I don't remember the number anymore."

"75? 75 Ibsengaten?"

"Yes, that's right." It worried me that he knew the exact street number. I could see that I had not put the street number in the log book, yet he knew it.

"And the daughter?"

"Pretty little thing. Truly. But never said a word."

"Can you describe the man."

"Stout. Balding. Somewhere in his forties. Maybe fifties?"

"And the girl?"

"Really I don't remember much. Just a child. She slipped in and out of the cab like a shadow. Never got a good look at her. She never said a word."

He looked across the interior of the garage at my moving truck. It was the same one I had driven that October night. I nodded in agreement to the officer when he waved a finger at it.

The cab of the truck contained a single seat bench, straight across from one door to the other.

"You drove them in the cab of your truck, from Norrköping to Blackeberg, a two hour drive, and yet you can't tell me anything about her?"

"Truly I cannot. She sat over next to the door. The man, I forget his name, sat between me and her the entire way."

"A grown man sat in the middle spot of your cab the entire way?"

"Uh, no. Well, I mean Yes, but No. He sat over towards the passenger side. What I mean is that she was so slight, so small, that she sat, well, somehow over there next to the door... Like I said, she was a shadow."

"Did you get a name?"

"No. I don't recall. Or rather, sir, he never called her by name nor told me her name."

"Hmmmm," the offer said. He had been writing notes.

"_Oh, and another thing. They had almost no furniture. A couch, an armchair, maybe a bed. An easy job, really. And that . . . yeah, they wanted it done at night. I said it would be more expensive, you know, with the overtime surcharge and that. But it was no problem. It just had to be done at night. That seemed real important. Has anything happened?_"

Why was he asking so much about the girl? Has something happened? God, I hoped she was okay. Please let him say No. That frail, pretty little ghost of a girl... please let him say No.

He looked at me in silence for a period that stretched beyond comfort. He sized me up, then and there, deciding - I hoped - that I had been honest with him.

What I wanted was to wrap this up so that I could finish closing up the garage and get home. I was trying my best to recall the face of that little girl.

Then he leveled me. "You moved the Ritual Killer."

I took a step back. No, I couldn't have! No.

I looked down at my log book. My log book with my careful handwriting. He had put a mark next to the entry. A mark. It was like a puncture wound. This man. This child. I had moved the Ritual Killer?

"_I'll be damned. . . ._"

I swallowed hard. Thoughts of dinner were gone. His finger was on the entry. "18 October. Norrköping-Blackeberg (Stockholm)," it read in my handwriting.

I sat down. Thinking about it now, I'm glad there was a seat behind me. The officer continued to look into my face.

There wasn't going to be any dinner tonight. I'd completely lost my stomach for it. I would make an excuse for that when I got home.

But nothing more. I wasn't going to tell anyone of this.

Ever.


End file.
